


Scenes From Recovery

by maryagrawatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt Sherlock, Missing Scene, Sherlocks parents - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone who visited Sherlock in hospital after he was shot was hostile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/gifts).



# One

Cathy liked the quiet buzz of the night shift in the critical care unit. There seemed to be more time to tend to her patients as more of them were sleeping and so there was less clamouring for her attention. Tonight, she was beginning her first round of taking vitals and all was calm. 

Her third patient was the young man who had been brought in four days earlier with a gunshot wound. His chances had seemed poor at first, but he was steadily getting stronger. He seemed like such a sweet boy, the same age as her son. He was always asleep when she came in, kept sedated to dull the pain of his injuries and keep him from moving and stressing his wound. So she was surprised after she took his blood pressure reading (low, but acceptable) to find dulled verdigris eyes trying to focus on her. 

"Hello, love," she whispered. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came from them. His gaze shifted and she followed it to rest on his hands. His fingers plucked weakly at the blanket. "Oh, are you cold, dearie?" He blinked twice, his eyes opening more slowly the second time. She pulled at the sheet and blanket folded over his torso, loosening them before gently moving his hands under them and covering his bare shoulders, mindful of his wound. "Better?" 

The boy was asleep. 

She gave into the urge to smooth the dark curls on his brow, making a mental note to call her son the next morning.

# Two

Greg Lestrade was visiting as a friend, as the man who had seen Sherlock at his lowest, detoxing from drugs, sometimes heroin, sometimes coke, and in such pitiful shape that it had literally made Lestrade sick. This was different. He had thought it would be funny to record Sherlock's drugged up ramblings, but it wasn't, not when he hadn't chosen to put himself in this state. 

The cop side of him occasionally interrupted to wonder who had put the proud man in this pathetic state. It was obvious that John knew something he wasn't willing to share, and possibly Mycroft, too. But Greg trusted these men. If they felt that he should not know, he shouldn't. They would have told Greg the friend if he wasn't obliged to tell Greg the Detective Inspector. Both Gregs knew that there were some things that simply had to be dealt with outside the law. He braced himself for the fallout. 

Sherlock slept fitfully during this visit, too medicated to actually flail around in bed, but his face frequently betraying his distress, his lips moving to utter soundless words. It was unbearable to watch and yet Greg couldn't tear himself away, to abandon the man who had given his life to save not just Greg's, but John's, and also Mrs. Hudson's. 

Sherlock had been alone for two years. This was the least he could do, to spend a few hours a day watching him struggle to survive. The irony was not lost on Greg that death had nearly claimed Sherlock more times now that he had something to live for than it did in the days when he had very little to offer society. 

A realisation hit Greg suddenly, that sometime in the past few years, between the move to 221B Baker Street and the phone call giving news that Sherlock had been shot, the strung out junkie he had once known, the arrogant detective he had respected, and the selfless hero he had grown to love had come together into the form of a Good Man. 

Greg promised that once Sherlock was lucid and strong enough for the conversation, he would tell him. Until then, he would watch over him. 

# Three

Mrs. Holmes sat by her son's hospital bed watching him sleep, reassured by the steady rise and fall of his chest. She resisted the urge to take his hand, knowing that the only chance she had for him to tolerate her presence was to not mother him. 

After some time, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. They flicked around the room and eventually rested on her. His gaze seemed clearer than it had in several days, since the dosage of morphine had gradually been reduced. She gave him a reassuring smile and he turned his gaze away, eyes closing, but not fully. 

A moment later, a nurse came in with a tray. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her, his curiosity obviously piqued. 

"We thought we'd try you on a little chicken soup today," the nurse said. Sherlock's expression brightened. She arranged his bed table and helped him elevate the head of the bed a little before adjusting his pillow. "Would you like some help?"  
"My mum can help," he slurred. 

Mrs. Holmes' heart thumped in her chest. She stood and approached the bed slowly, taking the spoon and filling it with a small mouthful of chicken and rice, pouring most of the broth back into the bowl. Sherlock opened his mouth and she gently brought the spoon up. He managed to take most of it in, but some dribbled down his chin. Mrs. Holmes daubed at it with a serviette. 

She repeated the exercise several more times until Sherlock said, "Enough." He had managed fully half of the cupful of soup. 

Mrs. Holmes went into the bathroom and wet a flannel, then returned to the bed to wipe Sherlock's face. She offered him water and he accepted, allowing her to hold the straw for him, before she took her seat again. Then, he fumbled with the bed controls and managed to ease himself back flat. His eyes fluttered close. 

"Mum?"  
She thought he was asleep and so was startled. "Yes?"  
"Can you sing to me?"  
She smiled, moving her chair closer so she could take his proffered hand, and began to sing, "Round and round the garden..." 

# Four

Mr. Holmes had chosen to spend yet another night with his son. Now that Sherlock was more lucid, he had made it clear that he did not tolerate solitude well. Mr. Holmes wondered if something had happened, but he did not ask his son. If Sherlock wanted to share, he did. No amount of prodding would garner answers he did not want to freely give. He had learned to let his sons come to him. Mycroft did so out of duty, making Sherlock's rare approaches all the more special because they came from a genuine desire to reach out. 

He yawned and stretched, his spine popping. His boy had been asleep for four hours, a record stretch, not even awaking for the vitals check by the lovely night nurse. Now that the sleep was more natural than medicated, it seemed more effective. Sherlock awoke less often, but for longer and much more lucid stretches of time. It was still much too soon for a fair chess game, but their intelligence was matched for checkers and many dark hours in the past week had been spent moving black and red tokens across a board. 

"Dad?"  
Mr. Holmes glanced at the clock before replying. Three a.m. "Yes, son?"  
"Did you bring a book?"  
Mr. Holmes smiled and held up a battered blue hard cover tome, the sight of which made his son smile. "Shall I start from the beginning?"  
"Please."  
"All right. Chapter 1, The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow. Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island..." 

Sherlock stayed awake for almost four entire chapters. Mr. Holmes would never say it out loud, but reading to his son for the first time in thirty years almost made losing him again worth it. Almost. 

# Five

Sherlock would be going home any day now. He was stronger, if impossibly frail, managing to walk as far as the loo and sometimes even down the hall and back. The risk of infection was gone, the bullet wound closed up nicely and uncomfortable more than painful. His brother knew all of this from reports by his parents and John Watson. Mycroft had not been to hospital once in all these months to visit his little brother, had not so much as texted him. 

He was unable to face a badly wounded Sherlock again, to sit by his bed as his brother fought for his life, remembering too clearly the stink of infection on him after those weeks spent in a Serbian torture chamber. Then, there had been no one else to sit with Sherlock and remind him that he needed to live so that he would not have died in vain. So Mycroft had stayed, bathing his brother with a cool flannel as his sweat dampened features twisted in agony, feeding him broth and custard when he could tolerate food, helping him find his footing after so many weeks in bed. 

They never spoke of those weeks, slipping back into the safe familiarity of their hostile and even aggressive relationship when Sherlock was finally ready to return to his life. But Mycroft had not forgotten and doubted that Sherlock would have deleted those memories. And so he was confident that his little brother would understand why he had not come in all these months. 

But today, he was ready. He missed Sherlock so much, though he would prefer to have both finger and toe nails ripped out than admit it. He missed their verbal sparring, yes, but even more so the way his brother had always helped him see the world with new eyes. Sherlock might claim that he had learned a lot from his older brother, but the reverse was also true, perhaps even more so. 

Mycroft did not knock, as the door was open. He was gratified to see that Sherlock was sitting in a chair, looking out the window, dressed not in a hospital gown but his own pyjamas, his heavy camel dressing gown over them. The hospital barber had obvious been by recently, judging from the length of Sherlock's hair and smoothly shaved face, straight edge, not safety. 

"Lost weight, have you?" Sherlock said, not turning around.  
"Indeed." 

That would be the closest either could admit to revealing how much the other had been missed. 

"Care for a game, Sherlock?"  
His brother turned to look at the proffered red box, his lips quirking up in a smile. "Oh, a very sensitive choice."  
Mycroft managed to hide his own smile. "I've been practising."  
"Have you now? Let's see how you handle a broken heart."


	2. Five More Scenes from Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was in hospital rather a long time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a gift for writer Boton, my fellow Sherlock/Janine shipper, who gave me the brush strokes for these scenes.

# One

Sherlock hadn’t appreciated just how many muscles are involved in something so small as shifting in bed until he’d laid there for weeks after two thoracic surgeries. 

At least, he’d graduated to the bed pan. He’d thought the nappies had been bad (when he was, finally, of sound enough mind to notice them), but the catheter had _hurt_. John had told him everyone’s experience with them was slightly different and that he hadn’t felt any pain at all when he’d worn one after being shot in Afghanistan. But Sherlock had felt the balloon in his scraping the walls of his bladder and the lubricant had irritated his penis. Having to call the nurse to help him use the bedpan was definitely the preferred option at this point, even with the reintroduction of solid foods sometimes making things distressingly messy.

He’s thirsty and there’s a large cup of water right in front of him, on the table, straw bent towards him. It’s still too far away. He fumbles for the bed controls and manages to raise the head a little, but he finds himself slithering down, which puts pressure on his wound. He eases back down and tries a different tactic, slowly lifting his hand to table height. Muscles he’d never known he had protest the movement, but he feels triumphant when his hand closes solidly around the cup and he’s able to lift it to bring the straw tantalising close to his mouth.

Until a painful nerve spasm causes him to drop the cup, with it landing on its side on his chest. The pain of it takes his breath away.

And then, he’s soaking wet.

And then, he realises that the attendant who had changed his sheets that morning had neglected to put his call button within range of his fingers.

This is unbearable.

# Two

Lestrade raps on the door to Sherlock’s hospital room. “Up for a visit?”

From his prone position Sherlock replies, “Yes,” so Lestrade approaches.  
“You look knackered… Bed bath?”  
“Yes.” Disgust at the memory is evident on his features.  
“Can’t imagine those are pleasant. Did you want to sleep?” That earns him a shake of the head followed by a frustrated frown. “What is it?”  
“My toes are cold.”

Lestrade goes to the wardrobe and finds in a drawer a few pairs of socks. He holds up two different ones. “Black dress or thick wool?”  
“Wool.”

He comes back to the bed and lifts the covers, exposing Sherlock’s feet. “Are you ticklish?”  
“I might be…” That earns him a squint. “You wouldn’t dare.”  
“No, I wouldn’t. Not today anyway.” Lestrade makes quick work of slipping the socks on Sherlock’s feet, then rearranges the bedcovers. “Do you want another blanket too?”  
“I’m fine now.” Then, “Thank you.”  
“Sure. Brought some cold case files for you. Thought you might be bored out of your skull. I can read them to you if you’re tired.”  
“Not today.”  
“Oh, okay. Let me know when you’re ready.”  
“It’ll be a while,” Sherlock admits.

# Three

Molly thinks Sherlock is asleep, but his eyes pop open as she comes to the bed. They are bright and red rimmed. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard and bites his lower lip before shakily answering her. “I’ve asked the nurses three times today… The bandage over my central line is pinching and they’re too busy to fix it and I can’t get my arm up…”

Molly has seen this more than once in her career, a patient going through an ordeal and reaching the breaking point because of something that would be trivial in another context. She’s surprised it’s taken Sherlock this long. “Can I have a look?”

He lets out a breath that some would consider a sob and nods.

She washes her hands, then pulls on a pair of gloves before gently peeling back the bandage. Sherlock whimpers once as the adhesive pulls at his skin, but then he sighs with relief as the bandage comes loose. Molly applies a little cream to the reddened skin and then affixes a slightly larger bandage. “Better?”  
“Yes. Thank you.”  
“Would you like me to wash your face too?”  
“Please.”

Molly fetches a flannel, wets it with hot water, and comes back to the bed. “Shouldn’t be too cold, okay?”  
“Mmm.”

She gently passes the flannel over the stubble on his chin and cheeks before moving up to get the crusted bits at the corners of his eyes. She catches a whiff of his breath as he exhales. It’s much better than it was when he was sedated. “Well, they at least helped you clean your teeth today.”

# Four

Mrs. Hudson comes with a large cloth Sainsbury carrier bag. Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “What have you got there?” He sniffs appreciatively.  
“Well, hello to you, too, love,” she retorts before smiling at him. “How would a home cooked dinner sound?”  
“Really?” His eyes go round and he’s surprised to find himself salivating.  
“Yes, really. John helped me with the menu. Now, mind you, you’re still on restrictions, but I’ve got a bit of roast chicken, mash with gravy, and carrots. And if you’re still hungry, there’s custard for pudding.”  
“Mash made with real potatoes?”  
“Yes. Of course.”  
“Oh, God…”

Mrs. Hudson bursts out laughing and gets to work setting up his bed table. She puts down a real china plate and smiles as Sherlock traces its rim. Then, she’s opening containers and scooping bite-sized pieces of chicken breast, honey glazed carrot rings (cooked a tad softer than she normally would make them), and mashed potatoes (without butter because John felt that would be too much with the fat in the gravy). The last thing is a soft dinner roll.

Sherlock stares at his feast, not sure where to start as he grabs the fork. Finally, he dips the tines in the gravy soaked potatoes and brings some up to his mouth. The potatoes are a little dry and starchy, but the rich gravy, made with the chicken drippings, makes them melt in his mouth. He moans appreciatively and moves to the chicken. Chewing is still a little bit of an effort, but the meat is so tender it comes apart with little difficulty. The bit of sweetness of the carrots is a pleasant contrast to the slightly salty gravy. He’d almost forgotten what good food tastes like.

“I think John was right.”  
“About what?” Sherlock absentmindedly asks as he pulls a bite from the roll.  
“That this would help you find your appetite.”

# Five

John brought a bag of Satsumas and the post. He gets to work peeling as Sherlock sorts through the envelopes and magazines.

“Ah, my latest edition of Guns & Ammo!” Sherlock exclaims, sweeping everything else aside so he can open it.  
John places a napkin on the corner of the table above Sherlock’s left hand and starts to place sections of fruit on it. “How many of these do you want?”  
“Mmm?”  
“Satsumas, how many?”

Sherlock looks up and sees the orange globe John is holding up. “Satsumas!”  
John chuckles and shakes his head. “Yes. You asked for them, remember?”  
“Right. Sorry. Still a bit distracted. Four, please.”  
“Four Satsumas coming up. What’s new in the exciting world of firearms?”

# Bonus Scene #1

“I would have thought you’d be looking better by now.”

Sherlock turns his head to the door, eyes wide with surprise. “What are you doing here?”  
Janine smiles as she steps into the room. “Thought you could do with seeing a pretty face?” He rolls his eyes. “I just wanted to see how you’re getting on. I was shocked when John told me you’re still here after three months!”  
“Well, that’s two thoracic surgeries for you. Sit if you’re going to stay.”  
“Do you want me to stay?”  
“Yes.”  
“All right, then.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a purple foil bag. “Fancy some chocolate buttons?”  
“Okay. You’ll need to put them on the tray. Fishing them out of a bag is still too much for me.”  
“Blimey!” She shakes a generous portion of the chocolate onto Sherlock’s table. “Have you been getting out of bed yet?”  
“Once a day, with help, to the toilet.” He picks up a button carefully and brings it to his mouth. “Mmm. Thanks for these.”

He has a few more before frowning.  
“What is it?” Janine asks. He grunts and shifts minutely. “Do you have an itch?”  
“Maybe…”  
“Do you want help with it?” A panicked look crosses his face. “Sherl, we’ve seen each other naked!”  
“Left bum cheek,” he replies as a blush creeps up his face, giving him some much needed colour.

Janine goes around the bed, moves the table out of the way, and lifts the covers up just enough to give her access. With her holding him steady, Sherlock is able to move just enough to relieve the pressure on his backside.  
“Right in the center.” She pokes him gently with a nail. “Bit more to the left. Yes. Right there. Oh my God.” Janine bursts out laughing. He lets her scratch for a long moment. “Good. Thank you.” Janine eases him back down and adjusts the blanket. “I can’t believe you just did that.”  
“Maybe we can still be friends? Because that’s the kind of thing friend ask of and do for each other.”  
“I’d like that.”

She presses a soft kiss to his forehead and this time, he leans into it.

# Bonus Scene #2

Janine comes back ten days later and is startled by the marked improvement Sherlock has made. He’s dressed in joggers and sitting in a chair by the window. This time, he’s expecting her. He grunts as she helps him to his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist so that she can help him take his first shaky steps down the hallway. Lifting his legs is still a lot of effort, so he shuffles along. Janine is sturdy enough to take some of his weight.

He has to rest when they get to the end of the hall and he all but collapses into a chair. Janine lets him catch his breath.

“Well done! How about I come every day until you're strong enough to make it to the canteen to buy me a coffee?”  
He's sprawled in the chair, head tipped back, sweat beading along his forehead. “You're going to find the coffee disappointing.”  
“Sherl!”  
He gives her a tired smile that reaches his eyes. “I look forward to it.”


	3. Five Last Scenes From Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is absolutely nothing in this chapter about any hints we've been given regarding series four. Like the other parts, it exists firmly in the canon up to the end of HLV.

# One

 

Mary comes to visit once, when he’s still too weak to sit up in a chair. She seems hardened by her separation from John. There’s none of the pregnancy glow he had read about and she looks ill and tired. He realises that they are a matching pair as he is bone-deep weary from the strain of recovery.

 

“I had to say I’m sorry,” she finally tells him after an awkward silence.

He shakes his head. “You never have to say it again. Now, I’m bored out of my skull. How about you get us some tea while I set up the Scrabble board?”

 

Mary lets out a shuddering sigh and bends down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

 

They play long enough to eat their way through two packets of Jaffa cakes and a pot of tea each. Mary beats him at every game.

 

# Two

 

Sherlock is flipping through the channels when there’s a soft knock on the doorframe. He looks up to see a pretty blonde in her twenties with big brown eyes and a large smile. He’s frustrated that his mind’s still too foggy to deduce anything about her.

 

“Yes?”

 

She remains just outside the door. “My name’s Melanie. I’m a volunteer. I come around once a month and do mani-pedis and give hand and foot massages. Nurse Witlow thought you might be interested?”

“Oh! Um, yes. Come in. I was just thinking I need to trim my toenails.”

“Well, I can certainly do that.”

 

Melanie comes in and unpacks a large shoulder bag onto his bedside table.

 

She starts with his hands, gently trimming the nails, filing rough edges, and then massaging his fingers and forearms with a lightly scented oil. Sherlock can’t help but moan with appreciation.

 

“Feet now?”

“Just the trim. I’m ticklish.” Sherlock’s surprised by how disappointed he feels.

“Well, I have some tricks. Can I try, gently?”

“Okay.”

 

She gets to work, much like with his hands, but she also sands his rough heels with a pumice stone. Sherlock is surprised that he can tolerate it.

 

“How about a gentle rub with peppermint cream?” Melanie asks when she’s done.

“‘K.” Sherlock is already so relaxed he’s starting to nod off.

 

Melanie is gentle as she massages each toe, then works her way to the heel and up his calves. Sherlock has to concede she has magic fingers because she hasn’t tickled him once.

 

“Who sent you?” he asks sleepily as she pulls the covers back over his legs.

She grins. “I really am a volunteer. But I have a salon in Camden if you want to do this again when you get out of hospital. I can leave you my card?”

“Yes, please.”

“Are you going to be here next month?”

“God, I hope not. But probably.”

“I’ll check in if you are.” She finishes packing her things and heads for the door.

 

“Melanie?” Sherlock calls.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

 

# Three

 

“Glad to see you up,” John says as he comes into the room. Sherlock turns from where he’s sitting in a chair by the window, enjoying the weak sunlight, and smiles. “How about we grab lunch at the canteen?”

“Oh, I’d like that.

“Think you can walk there?”

“With the frame, yes. First, I want to put on shoes and a jacket. I know it’s silly--”

“No, I get it, Sherlock.” John helps him into his trainers and a zip-up hoodie.

 

They make their way slowly to the canteen, where John settles Sherlock at a table before looking at the menu. “The beef stew sounds good.”

“Not for me. What I want is a fried egg and cheese butty with chips.”

Sherlock sounds so eager that John is loathe to comment on the order, but Dr. Watson wins. “Hate to ask you, but with all that grease…”

“No diarrhoea for a week now. Digestion’s as back to normal as it can be with limited exercise.”

“Okay, then. One fried egg and cheese butty with chips coming up. Maybe some fruit with that?” He squints at a refrigerator display. “Looks like they have some cut up pineapple.”

“Please. And tea.”

“Got it.”

 

The food comes quickly and John has to laugh at how eagerly Sherlock attacks his sandwich, especially when the yoke starts running down his chin. “You’re eating like a pig!” John snorts out. Sherlock’s answer is to rub his tongue as far down his chin as he can to collect the yoke. “Oh, charming,” John smirks, passing him a napkin.”

“How’s the stew?”

“Not as good as Mrs. Hudson’s, but decent. Care for a bite?”

“No thanks.” Instead, Sherlock passes one of his chips through ketchup and pops it into his mouth. “I miss good chips. These are soggy.”

“I’ll tell Molly to bring you some tomorrow. Actually, I have a better idea.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll see.”

 

# Four

 

“Fancy some chips?” Molly asks him the next afternoon, as Sherlock is once again sitting by the window, reading. “There’s a mediocre fish shop just across from the hospital where we’ll likely get skimpy portions.”

That earns her a grin. “I can go out?!”

“John thinks you're strong enough now. There’s much less risk of infection.”

“I sense a but coming.”

“You’re going in the chair.”

“I can live with that but. Speaking of which, think they have halibut?”

“I know they do.”

 

# Five

 

He thought he’d want a bath and to sit in his chair for a bit, but the trip home has worn him out. Sherlock lets John guide him to his bedroom, remove his shoes, and gently settle him in bed. “Greg and Molly want to come for a bit later. Think that’ll be okay?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock murmurs sleepily. He’d forgotten how comfortable his bed is, with the lumps being in exactly the right place. He hugs his pillow tightly.

“Welcome home, Sherlock.”

 

John rouses him a few hours later. Sherlock stretches luxuriously, enjoying the pop of his joints, even the pull of his wound. He slips into the bath John ran for him and it is the best bath of his life.

 

He can smell roast beef and knowing that Mrs. Hudson has prepared a special meal convinces him to dress in a suit. The fine material feels good against his skin, even if he acknowledges that the fit is too loose. He gives his best shoes a polish and then he makes his way slowly to the kitchen.

 

Molly and Greg are there already, with John and Mrs. Hudson. For a moment, he’s afraid they’ll start clapping. But instead Molly hugs him and Lestrade claps him on the back before Mrs. Hudson pushes him into his chair and John passes him a glass of wine.

 

Home. Home at last.


End file.
